


Bah, Humbug!

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: Christmas Smut, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 01:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16863265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: "It's not that she dislikes Christmas. She just doesn't see the point."Winter is not Beckett's favourite season. Christmas is Castle's favourite time of year.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted to FF.net

Beckett is not happy. She has a multitude of reasons. 

Winter is not her favourite season.  It’s chilly, or cold, and the weather outside is frightful.  Sleet, or freezing rain, or slippery snow that ruins her chances of wearing her favourite heels.  She doesn’t like that. 

She doesn’t like the way in which everyone is supposed to be delighted by the merest hint of a snowflake; she doesn’t like hot mulled wine, which is a waste of a good bottle of red.  She doesn’t like the relentless pressure to be ostentatiously merry: she doesn’t do joviality.  She doesn’t like carol singing – mainly because the bullpen couldn’t catch a tune in a bucket, and the caterwauling hurts her ears.  She doesn’t like turkey – what’s wrong with a nice joint of beef?  All the trimmings are simply greedy overkill.  And Yule logs are a fast way to ruin a good chocolate roulade.

She doesn’t like the fact that every murder is greeted by wails of “But it’s _Christmas_!” as if that should convince criminals to stop being – well, _criminal_.  Her results are all delayed because every tech in town is doing their Christmas shopping instead of their job.  Ryan and even Esposito are discussing the best presents for their profuse quantities of relatives.  Lanie is an utter washout – the woman _loves_ shopping, and is perfectly prepared to dragoon Beckett along with her if not stopped.  Stopped by force, that is, and frequently by the application of a Glock.  So far, the safety catch has remained on.

She doesn’t like fuss, muss, sociability or shopping; eating too much or large parties; present wrapping or card sending; crimson Santas or tackily decorated trees; excited children of all ages or elves.  Or reindeer, which are simply ugly horses with horns and a _really_ good PR agent.

Christmas-tide, in fact, induces in Beckett only the strong desire to shout “Bah, _humbug_!” at every passing rosy-cheeked child, parent, grandparent and being of any description whatsoever, living, dead or in-between.

And she has a cold.  Having a cold is not, naturally, directly the fault of it being Christmas-tide, but right now it’s all one oozing morass of annoyance and discomfort.

It’s not that she _dislikes_ Christmas.  She just doesn’t see the point.

Unfortunately, Castle _does_.  Loudly (is he ever quiet?), enthusiastically (is he ever not?) and _all the freaking time_ since November 30.  If it wasn’t for the constant press of people and Montgomery’s beady eye, both of which mean that she can’t dispose of the corpse secretly, she’d have shot him.  If she’d known in September he’d be like this about Christmas, she’d never have accepted his apology or ever let him back in the precinct. 

Right now, he’s still talking.  Happily, she’s not listening.  She makes _hm_ noises every so often, interspersed with _um_ , or occasionally _mm_.  It’s sufficiently ambiguous for it not to be rude.

If only she hadn’t varied the noises by emitting, without thinking or listening, an occasional and indifferent _yes_.

“Great!”

 _Oh, shit_.  Castle only sounds that enthusiastic when he thinks he’s got one over on her.  She sneezes, pointedly, and blows her already scarlet nose.

“I never thought you’d agree.”

Saying _I didn’t_ isn’t likely to help.  Castle won’t believe her.  Or he’ll pretend not to, and then he’ll widen his eyes at her and look utterly pathetic and no matter _how_ hard she tries she can’t deal with that.  If she believed in Santa she’d ask him to give her resistance to Castle’s puppy-dog look.  That would at least be useful.   Asking the Santa she doesn’t believe in for a scorching night with someone (and that someone is absolutely definitely not Castle even if his scent when he gets too close does make her knees wobble) would be silly.  Far better to get something practical.  Not that she needs to wait for Christmas or some mythical and non-existent Santa for that: she can just buy it.  And if she wants a scorching night with someone she’ll put on a short skirt and a tight top and go clubbing with Lanie.  She doesn’t need mythical Santas for that either.  She can pick up a hot man if she wants to.  Usually she doesn’t even have to try.  Men appear, hot, wanted or not.  It’s getting rid of them that’s the problem.  Her Glock helps, again.  So if she wants a hot wild night, she can have one.

She just hasn’t wanted to for nearly nine months.   It’s ridiculous.  She’s just being ridiculous.  Nothing to do with Castle at all.

She sneezes again, crossly, and blows her nose again, which hurts.  She’ll need a pint of moisturiser to soften the dry skin around her nostrils, and a full tube of concealer to damp down the redness.  She is not Rudolph’s cousin, and if anyone suggests it she will shoot them, regardless of the public nature of her desk.  No-one would ever convict her.  Provocation defences are totally justifiable.  She sneezes, yet again.

“Poor you,” Castle says, faux-sympathetically, leaving whatever nonsense he’s talking behind.  She has no interest whatsoever in whatever ridiculous undertaking he’s trying to convince her she’s agreed to.  It’s cold, she has a cold, and _bah, humbug_.  “It’s no fun having a cold at Christmas.”

“It’s no fun having a cold.  Christmas is irrelevant.”

“Heresy!  It’s much worse having a cold at Christmas.  You can’t taste all the lovely food and drink properly.”

“What, like the food from the comfort truck?  I know exactly how that tastes.  Same as usual, possibly with added salmonella as a present.”  She coughs, by way of variation on a theme.  She would sniff, but she was brought up with some manners and there is nothing worse than sniffing.  And that’s another irritation at this time of year.  No-one seems to carry Kleenex, and they _all_ sniff revoltingly.  One of them gave her this cold, and when she finds the perpetrator they will _suffer_.

“You have no Christmas spirit, Beckett,” Castle droops.  “It’s very off-putting.”

“Christmas is an over-hyped commercialisation of a pagan celebration overlaid with Christian theology.  It’s not even definitely the right date.  The Church just annexed the winter solstice and Saturnalia.  There’s no proper evidence at all.  It’s an excuse to have a series of drunken parties and spend lots of money on things that people don’t want.  All you end up with is a family row about who took Great-Auntie Grace’s best muffler and then there’s a corpse on the floor.”

She sneezes again, and blows her nose in a very conversation-ending way.

“Nonsense,” Castle says firmly.  “Christmas is about making people happy.  You spend time with your family, you do things that you all enjoy accompanied by food and drink that everyone likes, you give them presents that you know they’ll appreciate, and everyone is happier at the end than the beginning.  No corpses.”

“I don’t need it to be Christmas to do things to make my dad happy.  If you need some stupid over-stuffed turkey and giving expensive gifts on one particular day to be happy with your family you’re doing it wrong.”

Castle, thankfully, has been silenced.  Oh.  That’s because he’s padded off to the break room, probably to concoct some coffee which has been utterly ruined by the addition of spices or flavours which are not vanilla.  If he doctors _her_ coffee, he might well end up wearing it.

She blows her abused nose once more, and subsides into a little pool of congested misery, sneezing occasionally and coughing more often than that.  She ignores the Christmas cheer around her as entirely irrelevant to her caseload.

Castle wanders back, placing a cup of thankfully ordinary, non-Christmassy coffee in front of her.  It is accompanied by a small packet of black-and-white striped candies.

“Thanks,” she says automatically, and then looks at the desk.  “Why have you brought a packet of candy, Castle?” arrives ominously.

“To top up your supply of humbugs.  You’ve muttered _bah humbug_ under your breath so many times you must be running out of humbugs by now.  So I bought you some more.  You do know that these are humbugs, don’t you?”

He smirks.  Beckett considers using these humbug-things to choke him, and then decides that she needs sugar more than Castle needs to be suppressed.  She stuffs one in her mouth, which will give her an excuse not to say anything, and turns back to her caseload.  The humbug-candy has the happy effect of easing her throat and cough, too.  Win-win.

“Anyway,” Castle says in a portentous manner, “you agreed to come to a movie with me.”

“Ugh,” Beckett says, and sneezes.  “I’ve got a cold.  I don’t want to go out.”

“It’ll take your mind off your nose,” he grins as she blows said nose all over again.  “You remind me of Rudolph.”  He hums, annoyingly, a snatch of the thrice-damned song.  “You can light my way.”

Beckett scowls blackly.

“C’mon.  It’s just a movie.  Popcorn and M&Ms are on offer…” he entices.  He has no right to be enticing.  Especially not with chocolate.  She always wants chocolate when she has a cold.  It cheers her up.  Unlike stupid humbug candies, which don’t even have chocolate in the middle to soothe her sore throat _properly_.  She glares at the candies.  They glare back.

“I don’t wanna,” she sulks.

“Better than festering at home and feeling sicker and sicker.”

“I wanna fester,” she says childishly.

“Fester in the movie theatre.  Much nicer.  Anyway, you said you would.  C’mon.”

“It’s not shift end.”

“No, it’s not.  Shift end was an hour ago.  C’mon.  Shut off your computer, put your papers away, stand up and put your coat on.”  He smirks evilly.  “Feel free to sneeze as often as you like while you do.”

She growls.  It’s interrupted by a sneeze.  Castle’s smirk expands.  Begrudgingly, she powers down and puts things away.  She has no idea why she’s going along with Castle’s plan, except that if she goes home she’ll probably take cough syrup and whiskey and watch cult B-movies which will magically all make sense under the influence of the mixture, when normally they make no sense at all.

Castle locates a cab, ushers her in, and sits tidily on the other side without touching her at all.  He’s probably trying not to catch her cold, she thinks crossly.  Not that she wants him to touch her.  No.  But she doesn’t want to be treated like a leper either.  She huddles into her scarf and coat, and coughs.

It’s undoubtedly the fault of the coughing, which is beginning to give her a sore throat, that she simply sits down while Castle happily informs her that he’ll get the tickets, some ice-cream for her cough, and some snacks.  It doesn’t occur to her to look at the list of films which are being shown, and even if she had there is a wide variety.

When he returns, bedecked with drinks, ice-cream and snacks sufficient to provision Scott of the Antarctic, he whisks her through to the screen without really providing her with time to note what they are about to watch.  She would be cross, but she’s too grateful for the ice-cream for any hint of crossness to be given house-room.  She unbundles herself from the scarf and coat, takes off her hat and curls into her seat.  Castle slides in next to her and arranges himself and the immense quantities of sustenance (how is he not the size of an elephant?) tidily.  She sighs, coughs again, blows her nose and crumples slightly.

“Are you okay?” Castle asks, with none of the earlier smirk.

“Yeah.  I’m fine.”

Castle makes a very sceptical noise, but doesn’t actually disagree.  Trailers begin to run for all sorts of movies, at least one of which Beckett might consider attending without actually being threatened at gunpoint to make her go.  She huddles some more, and shivers.

“You’re cold,” Castle says.  “Must have been the ice-cream.”  She’s still reeling at the illogic when his arm arrives around her slim shoulders.

“What’re you – _atchoo_! – doing?”

“Keeping you warm.  You’re cold.”

She is a little cold.  Well, she _was_ a little cold.  She isn’t cold now.  Castle is warm.  She is very, very warm.  Hot, one might say.  She doesn’t protest further at the arm.  It’s comfy, and comforting.  It’s only because she’s not feeling good.  She hates having a cold.  Anyway, the movie will cheer her up.

The start of the movie does not cheer her up.

“What the hell, Castle?  _A Christmas Carol_?  By Disney?” she squawks, regrettably sotto voce to avoid being evicted.  She hasn’t quite finished the ice-cream, and there is chocolate.  “What makes you think I’d want to see _any_ Christmas movie?”  She wanted a nice gory action movie with no plot, no intelligence required and lots of big set piece explosions and bad guys dying messily.

“I thought you’d have some fellow-feeling for Scrooge,” Castle says provocatively, right into her ear.  She would kill him, but his proximity to her ear and – she thinks; she isn’t quite sure because it’s so fleeting and so light – the flick of lips over the lobe is producing some very strange effects on her muscles.  They don’t seem to be entirely under her control.  Must be the sneezing.

Strangely, her head has migrated to Castle’s shoulder.  Except when she’s sneezing.  There is a rhythm developing.  She sneezes, and jerks forward, Castle catches her and repatriates her to his broad shoulder, ensuring that his arm is around her at all times.  In between, she eats the M&Ms.  The chocolate helps.  Chocolate always helps.  Far better than Christmas, and always available at any time of year.

Gradually the movie grows on her.  Mostly, this is because she does indeed have a fellow-feeling for Scrooge.  He had the right attitude, and the Ghosts are really just meddling busybodies who don’t get that not everyone needs to have the same views.  Even with this entirely reasonable view, however, she’s still startled and just a little scared by the demon horses, and jumps.

“I’ve got you.  Don’t be scared,” rumbles smugly in her ear.  She would retaliate, but he’s done that maybe-ear-nibbling thing again and it has _totally_ distracted her.  Especially as it was followed up by a very definite nuzzle of her hair.  She should move.  Her hair is not for nuzzling, no matter how nice it feels.  Nor is it acceptable to be kissing her hair.  That must have been her imagination. 

She sneezes, follows up by blowing her nose as quietly as possible – which in practice means that she is merely making as much noise as a single baby elephant and not a full herd – and then starts to cough.  She manages to smother that only by turning, in absolute desperation, further into Castle’s shoulder and muffling the noise in his sweater.  It’s not good manners, but it works.  She’s already getting black looks from surrounding people.  Really, don’t they know it’s Christmas time and forgiveness is essential?  She just bets they’d claim that they’re full of Christmas spirit, so why are they glaring at her?  She, on the other hand, is entitled to glare. She has no Christmas spirit whatsoever, and isn’t planning on acquiring any.

Muffling herself in Castle’s sweater-covered chest was a very bad idea.  Firstly, it smells quite delightful and in no way of Christmas at all.  Good.  But bad, because she could definitely deal with breathing the scent in for some considerable time, especially if she were two layers closer to the source, as it were.  That is not a good thought.  Secondly, because Castle thinks her action is an invitation and has accepted it as eagerly as a four-year old opens presents.  With significant difficulty, she extricates her head from his embrace.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs.  “Come back and be cuddled.”  Somehow, the smooth dark molasses of his bedroom voice (she hopes it’s a bedroom voice, because it certainly shouldn’t be allowed out anywhere else) are sliding down her synapses and stifling what little sense her cold and anti-Christmas feelings have left her with.  Surely that’s why she isn’t unfurling from him?  She’s only just turned far enough to see the screen – at which she startles again as Scrooge falls into the grave, which causes Castle to cuddle her back in again.

And then, of course, the movie starts on the obligatory Christmas happy ending.  Yes, Beckett has read the original book.  Yes, she knows it has a happy ending.  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  _Bah, humbug_!  It would have been much better if Scrooge had remained a curmudgeonly old man – and more realistic, too.  Leopards don’t change their spots, and all that.  She harrumphs, sounding remarkably like Scrooge.

“No harrumphing, Beckett,” Castle says from above her head.  Oh.  She’s still clasped against his sweater.

“Why not?” she says crossly, smothered by the sweater.  At least it’s not one of those dumb Christmas sweaters.  It feels like cashmere, and why would anyone waste good cashmere on a tasteless Yule design?

Castle pats her.  Since she’s still all snuggled up – purely because he hasn’t let her go, of course – it’s actually more of a stroke.

“Because the next stop is hot chocolate.  I know this gorgeous little family-owned café that does the best hot chocolate anywhere.  Smooth and rich and soothing – a bit like me, really.  It’ll ease your throat.”

“Will it have stupid spices spoiling it?” Beckett says. 

Castle tuts at her.  “That’s not nice,” he chides.  “They’ll make it however you like.  Just because you’re cross is no reason to be nasty.”

Beckett blushes shamefacedly.  This allows the rest of her face to match her nose.  “Sorry,” she mutters.

“C’mon.  It’s only a couple of blocks.”

It occurs to Beckett, through a fog of stuffed-up nose and cold, that Castle seems to have something of a plan.  Possibly the choice of movie theatre wasn’t random.   She trails along behind him.  Well, she tries.  About three steps in Castle realises that his bouncy enthusiasm is carrying him along rather faster than the sneeze-ridden Beckett, slows up, lets her get half a step ahead and then basely uses their relative positions to sling his arm around her.  She doesn’t even complain.  Being covered by a nice warm strong arm is pleasant.

The café would likely be pleasant, if its ordinary décor could be seen under the several tons of tinsel and other decorations.  Castle had monumentally failed to mention that _gorgeous_ translated to _addicted to Christmas_.  Beckett looks dyspeptically at the shiny baubles, flashing lights, and eight-foot fully decorated tree, and aims straight for a corner seat where she can look out the window and avoid the migraine-inducing fractured multi-coloured sparkles.  It’s also well away from draughts and cold blasts from the opening door, though looking out the window will undoubtedly involve the expectation that she admires the swirling snowflakes.  She doesn’t.  It just means that there won’t be a single cab around to get her home.

“Plain hot chocolate, please,” Beckett requests, “with whipped cream.”

Castle looks just a little disappointed in her.  “But you could have cinnamon, or nutmeg, or even rum in it.”

“Just ordinary, please,” she says, with emphasis on the _ordinary_.  She can hear Castle grumbling about her lack of adventurous spirit and Christmas cheer all the way to the counter.


	2. Chapter 2

When he returns, and when the hot chocolate arrives, she is forced to admit after the very first sip that it is indeed the best hot chocolate she has ever had.

“Told you so,” Castle says smugly.  She’s so delighted by the taste that she doesn’t kill him for that, being too busy burying her face in the cream in the manner of a gourmandising tiger.  She may re-emerge with more cream on her face than a two-year old, but she doesn’t really care.  She can even manage to ignore the ridiculously overdone decorations.

She can’t ignore Castle’s arm, back around her.  He seems to have decided that his arm belongs around her in all circumstances short of the bullpen – it better be short of the bullpen or cases – and is making it clear.  Possibly he’s making it clear to a group of nice-enough-looking men in the inside corner, who are eyeing her up.  _Were_ eyeing her up.  They aren’t any more.  Huh.  She peeks at Castle, between two coughs.  He’s wearing a very strange expression – a mixture of smug, possessive, and affectionate.  If she had to sum it up – though surely her cold has mushed her brain into porridge – she’d say that it said _Mine_.  Well, it might be Christmas but she is not anyone’s present.  She’ll decide what – or who – she does.

Castle’s aftershave tickles her sniffling nostrils again.  It is very attractive.  It would no doubt be even more attractive if she weren’t so stuffed up with the cold that she can only smell a little of it.  It’s just as well she can’t smell more of it.  She might be tempted to do something dumb.

As if she hasn’t just done something dumb by snuggling into him and putting a hand on his knee, entirely accidentally.  Castle’s reaction speed would have astonished Isaac Newton, and possibly disproved Einstein’s Theory.  Santa Claus on Christmas Eve (if he existed and if faster-than-light travel weren’t impossible) couldn’t have moved faster than Castle.  His hand lands over hers and imprisons it, which also means that she is held in considerably closer and tighter than had previously been the case.  Castle, quite unfairly, is using his other hand for his hot chocolate, which is just far enough away that her nose is not assaulted by anything that might be a Christmas-spice smell.  If she could smell anything, what with the cold and the aroma of Castle or his aftershave.  She blows her nose, which doesn’t really help.

Castle’s clamped embrace has mutated into him burying his nose in her hair and ensuring that her ability to escape being cuddled in is zero, at least without inflicting severe and entirely unseasonable violence.  Not that the season would stop her, since it doesn’t stop any other form of criminal conduct or annoyance, but it’s quite difficult to draw her unsilenced gun and shoot him while (one) no-one notices and (two) he’s holding her hands.  Plural.  The sneaky so-and-so has managed to trap both of them.  She tugs.  Nothing happens.

“I want to drink my chocolate,” she says.  It should be a sharp snap of irritated briskness.  Instead it sounds plaintive, and quite probably pathetic.  Castle lets go of one hand, with a soft stroke over its back.  Beckett coughs, and chases it with what turns out to be the last drips of her lovely chocolate.  She eyes the bottom of the mug depressedly.  “It’s all gone,” she sulks, with an extra dose of plaintiveness for good measure.

“That’s easy,” Castle says, regarding her carefully.  “We’ll have another one.”  He waves happily at the staff.  “Are you sure you don’t want any spices?”

“No, thank you,” Beckett says.  “I like mine plain and unadorned.”  She sneezes, in counterpoint.

“You like the simple things in life?” Castle asks mischievously.

“I like you,” she snarks.  “That’s simple.” 

Castle doesn’t appear fazed at all.  “Of course liking me is simple.  I’m very likeable,” he oozes.  Beckett is quite sure that wasn’t what she meant.  Didn’t she mean _you’re simple_?  “I have very simple likes and dislikes too.”  She doesn’t ask.  One of his likes is sure to be Christmas.  One of his dislikes is Scrooge.  She is exactly the reverse.

“I like you,” he murmurs.  Yeah, well, the arm around her and the nuzzling had rather clued her into that.  “And I think you like me a lot more than you let on.”  He smirks.  “And we both like the hot chocolate.”

The hot chocolate arrives at that moment, fortunately.  The look in Castle’s bright blue eyes didn’t have much to do with Christmas saintliness, but had a lot to do with the creative definition of naughtiness while feeling very, very nice.  Beckett hides in the chocolate and tries to ignore the answering response sending quivers down her nerves.  She is rather afraid that she’s failing.  Even her appalling cold and hardwired cynicism about the commercially-induced ghastliness that Christmas seems to have become isn’t blocking out her reaction to Castle’s proximity and increasing levels of flirtation.  He’s now stroking her hand in a very interesting manner.  She blows her nose.   She doesn’t actually need to blow her nose, for the first time today, but it’s a useful way to calm down.

“Don’t we?” Castle asks.

“Yes,” Beckett has to admit.  She means to reply to the comment about hot chocolate.  Castle, however, takes shameless advantage of her short response to subvert the meaning.  It’s entirely unfair of him to use the effects of her cold to take shameless advantage of _anything_.  Christmas is no excuse, either.  She may be all wrapped up by him but she still isn’t a present.

Unfortunately no-one told Castle that.  He thinks she’s a present.  Specifically, he’s decided that she’s his present, and more specifically that this present is for kissing.  He’s leaned in and down and planted a surprisingly soft kiss on her lips.  All terribly innocent.  Until his tongue flicks along the seam of her astonished lips, which is not at all innocent and is terribly naughty.  It also opens the present, so to speak.

Beckett discovers that hot chocolate with stupid Christmas spices is actually very nice.  Even if it is second-hand.  Castle lifts off, and smirks smugly. 

“See?” he says.  “I like you.  You like me.”  He drinks his chocolate.  Beckett tries out several responses for size in her head, and doesn’t like any of them.  They lack snark, sarcasm, or sardonicity (is that even a word, she wonders, and doesn’t ask Castle).  Instead, she sneezes.  Snarkily.  Then she drinks her chocolate.  She’d do that sardonically, but drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream is not conducive to sardonic behaviour.

She coughs, again, and then again and again.  She can’t stop coughing, suddenly.  When the spasm does stop, her eyes have teared up and her throat hurts.  The hot chocolate solves the second.  The first is only solvable by ruining a paper napkin, which, since it is decorated with ridiculously annoying jolly Santas is not in any way a problem.  The more of _those_ she ruins the better place the world will be.  She uses another three before she’s content that her eyes are perfectly dry.

“I think I’d better get you home,” Castle says suavely.  “I would have bought you dinner, but you’ll just have to put up with take-out.  Can’t have you infecting the whole of Manhattan.  It’s not nice.  Especially at Christmas.”

“Bah, humbug!” is what Beckett _means_ to say.  Somehow all that emerges is _atchoo_!, which is not at all satisfying.  Who cares that it’s Christmas?  Everyone gets colds in winter anyway.  A nice dinner would have been – well, _nice_.  And now she’s being deprived of it.  She humphs very sulkily.  She would blow her nose on one of the stupid Santa napkins, to prove a point, but her nose is sore enough already, so she sticks to Kleenex.

Castle holds her coat for her, which seems to be a nice gesture but rapidly turns out to have the ulterior motive of putting her into it, stroking her from shoulder to ass, and then holding on to her.  He doesn’t miss the opportunity to keep stroking her hip, either.  It’s cheating.  Definitely cheating.  It’s especially cheating because it feels really, really nice.  Now he’s steering her out the café, which she is perfectly capable of doing by herself despite the confusing effect of all that tinsel.

Annoyingly, despite the throngs of over-baggaged Christmas shoppers stopping in the way, walking so slowly that they might fall over, and blocking the sidewalk with their insane quantities of parcels, and despite the swirling snow, Castle picks out a cab instantly, ushers her into it and follows, giving her address and then ensuring that he’s reinstated his arm around her.  In point of fact, and despite her cold and lack of any holiday spirit whatsoever, he is making sure that she’s tucked so close against him that he could tell the colour of her underwear by touch.

“There,” he says happily.  “All comfy.”  She looks crossly at him, and then blows her nose.  He looks back, dips down and kisses the abused, sore tip of it, very carefully.  “Kissed better.”

“That’s ridiculous.  Kisses don’t cure colds.”

“I’ve never been convinced of that.” 

Beckett essays a glare, which is ruined by another coughing fit.  Castle cuddles her in, and when she’s finally finished wheezing plants a kiss on the top of her head.

“That won’t help,” she says.

“No, but it’s nicer than cough syrup.”

“For who?”

“Whom.”

Beckett growls.

“Nicer for me.  I don’t like cough syrup.”

“I’m the one with the cold here, and if I think cough syrup will help I’ll take it.  It’s more use than dumb Christmas outfits and snowflakes, anyway.”

“How about some Christmas spirit, Beckett?”

“I don’t do Christmas spirit.”

“You’ll do this one,” Castle says, cheerfully impervious to her hatred of the season and her incoming-nuclear-warhead glare.  He halts the taxi for them to exit, turns them both into the entry of a small liquor store, lets go of Beckett, picks up three smallish bottles without hesitation or apparently looking, adds a packet of something from the counter that she can’t be bothered to read, pays, and re-collects her.  His bag clinks happily.  It has a Christmas tree on the front.  Beckett glares at that too, but sadly it doesn’t turn into a scorched tree.  It clinks even more merrily, instead.  Beckett is not made merry by the noise.

“What is it?” she says.

“Christmas spirit.  Since the humbugs got left at the precinct” – nice use of the passive-aggressive tense there, Castle: she deliberately left them there – “there should be some space in your head for some Christmas spirit.”

“My head is full of cold,” she argues.

“We’ll displace it, then.”

Somehow they’ve got to her building.  Somehow Castle has kept her cuddled in all the way that they have walked from the liquor store.  It has, thankfully, stopped snowing.  The snowflakes might, at a pinch, be pretty outside but when they’re melting on the floor they’re nothing but a nuisance.

In Beckett’s apartment Castle wanders to the kitchen as if it were his own, puts down the clinking bag and wanders back to Beckett.

“There,” he says.  He slips off his coat, hat and scarf and hangs them up, and then turns to her.  She’s been watching with open-mouthed irritation as he does all this.  It’s not his loft.  It’s her apartment.  It’s also resolutely devoid of any Christmas décor except a handful of cards and a small, table top sized, artificial tree with small white lights and the occasional small silver bauble.  She wouldn’t even have that except that it makes her father happy that she has one.  He looks round.  “Minimalist,” he says.

“Yeah.”  So?  She likes it that way.  No mess, no fuss.  As close to tasteful as the season can supply.

Castle is taking her coat off.  This is quite unnecessary, as is the way in which he uses the action to sneakily stroke right down her torso.  Just before she manages to formulate any objections, which are not instantly springing to her mind, he stops.  Her initial disappointment is quite ridiculous.  Her pleasure as he unwraps her scarf from her neck, stroking that, is equally ridiculous, especially when he manages to find a spot below her ear which causes her to wriggle a fraction and press against him.

“Oh,” he says happily, and strokes it again.  “Something simple that you like?”  His tone changes to drip seduction over her.  Then he leans in and kisses the spot.  She wriggles again, more definitively.  “Definitely keen on simple likes.”  And then he simply covers her mouth and invades.

All thoughts of Christmas or humbug fly out of Beckett’s head, along with all other thoughts of any nature whatsoever.  Who cares about Christmas?  Just don’t stop kissing her like that.  His hands roam up and down her back, pressing her closer and closer.  There’s a lot of him to be pressed against, and she doesn’t only mean his wide chest and firm thighs.  She opens to his demanding tongue and embarks on some manual exploration.

It’s all totally spoiled when she has to wrench her mouth from his and turn so that she can sneeze.  That’s not fair.  She’d found something that didn’t need to come with Christmas nonsense and her thrice-bedamned  cold is ruining it.  _Bah, humbug_! 

When she tugs away, Castle initially acquires an expression containing an unpleasant combination of upset and annoyance, but as she sneezes, swiftly followed by another paroxysm of ghastly coughing, that rapidly changes to understanding and sympathy.  He steers her to sitting on her couch, and then abandons her.  He probably doesn’t want to catch the cold, she thinks unhappily, especially since he does Christmas like it’s going to be abolished.  (which wouldn’t, she reflects, be such a bad outcome.  Certainly it would remove a lot of irritations from the month of December.)  She turns round, and spots him investigating her cupboards, in which he finds a pan.  The clinking bottles glug their contents into the pan, the packet of whatever it was follows, and shortly her apartment is full of the scent of hot alcohol.  It does not smell like mulled wine.  This is good.  The smell of mulled wine triggers all her anti-Christmas instincts, and, at least in her imagination, also triggers her Glock. 

“What’s that?” she croaks out.

“Punch,” Castle says.  She looks blankly at him.  “Punch.  Hot alcoholic drink for winter in general.  Not specifically about Christmas, Beckett,” he adds slightly mischievously.  “Good for coughs and colds and sore throats.”

“Okay,” she emits feebly, blindsided.  It smells nice.  And it has lots of alcohol.  And it’s not associated with Christmas so she won’t feel like a hypocrite if she enjoys it.  Castle is humming happily in the background as she takes a couple of lung-busting deep breaths.  As she does her, completely forgotten, hat falls off.  She goes to hang it up, and on her return route investigates the kitchen.  Castle looks round, smiles widely, and stretches out the arm which is not occupied in stirring the punch to catch her in.

“It’ll just be a few moments,” he says.  “You need to let the flavours blend.”

“Okay,” she says.

Castle takes a step away from the hot pan, and embraces her a good deal more forcefully.  “I have some simple ideas for passing the time,” he flirts.  “Like this.”  He doesn’t bother asking before he kisses her again.  She’d pull him up on his bad manners if it wasn’t that talking with your mouth full is also a display of very bad manners.  Besides which, he’s propping her up.  Her knees are a little wobbly.  This has nothing to do with his aroma.   Nothing at all.  It’s nothing to do with her nine-month Castle-induced relationship drought either.  Her hands slide into his hair, and her body melts into his.

For the second time, she has to break off to cough.  This is truly irritating.  Just as she was starting to think that everything was going beautifully, her cold intervenes.  Bah, humbug.  Her cold has no sense of timing at all.  She’ll name it Ryan, shortly.  This time Castle doesn’t let go of her, though he does extend one arm to give the punch a stir.

“We’ll need mugs,” he says.  Beckett thinks that what she needs is not a mug but a magic cold-remover.  If she could have one of those, _right now_ , she’d even believe in Santa.  For a moment.

“Left hand cupboard,” she says, detaching herself half an instant before the sneeze arrives.

“Go and sit down.  I’ll bring it,” Castle says helpfully.  “If you try, you’ll drop it all when you sneeze.”  Which last is not a helpful statement at all.

“Will this cure my cold?”

“Possibly.  But you won’t feel nearly as awful after you’ve drunk it.”

Beckett cautiously takes a sip of steaming, aromatic liquid, and nearly drops the mug.  “What’s _in_ that?” she squeaks.  “Neat alcohol?”

“It’s a secret recipe.  Don’t you like it?”

“Yes, but it’s blown my head off.”

Castle taps the top of her dark head.  “Still seems to be attached to me.”  He kisses it.  “Yep, it’s there.”  Somehow his possessive arm has made its way back around her shoulders.  She shifts a little to make herself entirely comfortable and ends up tucked in very close indeed.  Another sip of punch is taken.  It’s delicious.  Another one slides smoothly down her throat.  It’s even more delicious.  Several more follow.  It really is soothing her throat, and, after an elephantine blow of her nose, that’s cleared too.  Life suddenly looks a lot better.

As does Castle.  He looks delectable, in fact.  She sets her punch down with a very definite click, deprives him of his own mug in a second fast movement, and then frames his face to pull it round and kisses him, just as firmly as he’d earlier kissed her.

It’s as explosive as a match thrown into gasoline.  If she’d been able to think, she might have thought that all Castle had been waiting for was her to make her move.  Now she has, and he’s reacted in spades.  He’s hauled her into his lap, leant her backwards over his arm, and he might have begun by plundering her mouth but he’s taken a detour to the spot that made her squeak and wriggle earlier and then he’s avidly exploring down her throat and into the vee of her top.  His other hand is exploring her hip.

Her hands are not exploring.  They have discovered.  Specifically, they have discovered the correct method of untucking his shirt and of undoing his buttons.  Who needs a fat old man in a red suit to bring happiness?  She’ll have a muscular man in his birthday suit.  No need for myths at all.  It’s all humbug.  Reality is just fine, especially when it’s in the form of a very solid and real Castle currently investigating the contents of her shirt – _oooohhhhh_.  Just do that again, please… _oooohhhhh_.  That’s a much better ting-a-ling than sleigh bells.  And her shivers have nothing to do with snowflakes glistening.  Snowflakes are not required.

She’s managed to open all of Castle’s buttons and move on to his belt.   Who needs to unwrap presents when she can unwrap this?  Though she seems to be rather less wrapped than she has been.  Skin touches skin, and suddenly heat flares between them and she’s standing and pulling him behind her, the punch forgotten in the hot grip of lips on lips and the drumbeat of racing pulses.

He stops her before she crashes into the bed and turns her into him: his hands now slow and sure, intent on her; his mouth firm and insistent.  Everything’s slowing down: a seduction not an inferno; smooth not scorching; pure pleasure underlain by passionate possession.  Hands wander, teasingly soft; lips roam, nibbling at pulse points.  Shirts fall away, pants puddle on the floor, skin rubs over skin, hard heat meets moist warmth.  Naughty fingers start to explore more interesting areas, and soon mutual stroking turns to a much more detailed investigation of the places that make her moan, the playful palming that makes him groan.

He gently pushes her down to sitting and then lying across the bed, it seems only mildly hampered by her wicked capture of some very sensitive areas.  She definitely likes this night-time visitor a lot better than any stupid fat Santa.  The only ample girth she likes is the one that’s filling her hand right now.

In fact, she really doesn’t need Santa, Christmas, decorations or anything else.  She’s pretty happy right now. 

And then she stops thinking entirely as Castle demonstrates with consummate ability and an absolutely _evil_ use of tongue and fingers that Santa is not the only person who comes at Christmas time. 

When she recovers, she muses that oral reciprocation is probably out of the question.  An ill-timed sneeze or cough could be very damaging.  However, there are ways around that.  Ten of them.  Ten fingers tickling.  So much more useful than ten lords a leaping.  See, Christmas is totally unnecessary.  It’s humbug.  She has a much better idea for making him happy.  She employs her ten fingers to make him growl and gasp and groan, and then slithers over him to take him in _properly._   There is a predatory noise, she is pulled down flat against him, and then Castle rolls them and rises over her and it’s impossibly, perfectly good.

She’s lying, curled against his broad chest, perfectly happy, when she realises that Castle is rumbling.  It resolves itself into words, eventually.  Diction appears not to be his strong point when luxuriating in afterglow.

“See?” he says, “Christmas is about making people happy.”

“You only want to be this happy at Christmas?” Beckett says naughtily.

“There’s only one answer to that,” Castle growls, and reaches for her.   “ _Bah, humbug!_ ”


End file.
